


A Series of Spooky Events

by february



Category: Glee
Genre: Creepy, F/F, F/M, Gen, Homophobic Language, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/february/pseuds/february
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here are six ficlets scattered throughout the seasons where life in Ohio and New York is a little creepier than it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Static

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thank you to [misswonderheart](http://misswonderheart.tumblr.com) for betaing this and listening to me babble. These stories are based on the "two sentence horror stories" that go around on Tumblr. I'm using ones from [this post](http://spookymrsboo.tumblr.com/post/78695428236/10-terrifying-two-sentence-horror-stories-part-2) and [this one](http://wilwheaton.tumblr.com/post/79170970746/fieldnotesfromabroad-policymic-reddit-users). Enjoy!
> 
>  **Content Warnings:** I wanted to write creepy fic, so there's creepy elements to all these stories. Most of them are of the demon/possession variety, and one contains ghosts.
> 
>  **Trigger Warnings:** Chapter four contains character death and mourning that loss, and chapter five has a couple instances of "f*g" since it's based within the episode where Burt gets that anonymous phone call in s1. The rest are safe and angst-free to my knowledge, but should I need to warn for anything else, let me know!
> 
> Alternately, read on LJ [here](http://waxpoetically.livejournal.com/17470.html).

  
  
  
"Night number two," Blaine says as he places the baby monitor next to Kurt's nightstand after turning it on. There's some vague gurgling that crackles through, and Kurt grins up at Blaine.  
  
"Night number two," he says. "God, I can't believe we're doing this. Are you sure we're not bad parents?"  
  
Blaine rolls his eyes fondly as he climbs over Kurt and into their bed. "Yes, I'm sure we're not bad parents," he says. "Look, I know my mom was super fanatical about us keeping Elizabeth in here in her crib until she's, like, fifteen and has her license -"  
  
"Oh, stop," Kurt says, turning over to face Blaine and smacking his shoulder. "She's not that bad."  
  
"It was pretty bad. I'm surprised I ever had my own bedroom," Blaine says, grinning in the dim lighting. Light spills in from the halfway open bathroom door. They learned from night number one that it's best to keep some light on at all times because the rush to comfort Elizabeth when they hear her cry over the monitor means stubbed toes and banged knees in the dark.  
  
There's another happy baby sound. She's probably talking to Margaret Thatcher Dog Jr. right now in babyese about her two crazy dads. "Listen to her," Kurt says, beaming as he turns over again to face the monitor, as if he can see through it and watch Elizabeth as she falls asleep. It's a little hard, not being so near to her, but she'll be a year old in a few weeks, and really, they spent way too many hours making her bedroom completely fabulous for her to never use it. And he's really just missed _Blaine_.  
  
That probably makes him a little bit of a bad parent.  
  
Blaine scoots up behind Kurt and presses against him, wrapping Kurt up in his arms and spooning behind him. He kisses the back of Kurt's neck. "You're tense and thinking too hard again," he says. "We can actually get an almost full night's sleep, and it's going to feel so good. You need to relax."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, _you_ can get an almost full night's sleep, but someone is on baby duty tonight, thank you," Kurt says as he laces their fingers together and brings Blaine's hand up to his chest. He feels Blaine smile behind him.  
  
"We agreed to switch. And I get brownie points for taking the first shift," Blaine murmurs. He rubs the tip of his nose against Kurt's shoulder and lifts up long enough to press a quick kiss behind Kurt's ear before dropping down to the bed again with a sigh. "Now go to _sleep_ , Daddy."  
  
"I forgot how bossy you are when you have me alone," Kurt purrs, shifting back a little more to press against Blaine. He's too tired to do anything, really, and he knows Blaine is too, but it's nice to think about.  
  
"Mmhmm, total control freak, that's me. Now do what I say and go to sleep," Blaine says, squeezing Kurt a little tighter.  
  
Kurt chuckles and presses two fingers to his lips before reaching out to brush them against the monitor. It takes them a good half hour to say goodnight to her already, but one more kiss won't hurt. He listens as both Blaine's and Elizabeth's quiet breathing lull him to sleep.  
  
It's not Elizabeth crying that wakes him up, but it is a noise. Blaine's not wrapped around him anymore, which would make Kurt pout if he didn't immediately hear "Shhhhhhh..." coming through the monitor then Elizabeth's soft cooing. "Hush, little baby, don't say a word...," a voice softly sings. The voice sounds a bit odd. It sort of sounds like Blaine, when he's trying to be quiet, but these monitors crackle sometimes and distort sound anyway, so Kurt's not surprised he sounds a little off.  
  
He's touched, really, because it's his night, but he must have slept through Elizabeth waking up and Blaine's taking care of her instead. Blaine has made such a good dad, not that Kurt ever thought he wouldn't.  
  
"And if that mockingbird won't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring..."  
  
That's weird, Kurt thinks. Usually Blaine changes that lyric to Daddy, but he's as sleep-deprived as Kurt is and probably forgot. Kurt knows he should get up, but it's nice to lay here and listen to his little family together in the next room.  
  
Elizabeth makes a slightly confused sound, not quite a cry, but louder than her half-asleep babbling from a second ago, and Kurt frowns, but then Blaine switches songs and Elizabeth quiets.  
  
"Rock-a-bye, baby, on the tree top..."  
  
Kurt smiles again, closing his eyes and reaching behind himself to steal some of Blaine's covers while he's taking care of Elizabeth. Except, when he does, his hand smacks into Blaine's chest. Kurt turns, and there's Blaine, snoring beside him, face mashed into his pillow and lost in a deep sleep. Kurt's eyes open wide and he gasps, twisting around in bed to stare in horror at the baby monitor. Then who...  
  
"When the bow breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all..."


	2. Listen

  
  
"Happy four week anniversary," Kitty says in the McKinley High parking lot. She doesn't drive yet, so they're both waiting on Artie's mom to get done with spin class and come pick them up.  
  
Artie looks up at her as she shoves a blue and white box clutched in her perfectly manicured hand under his nose. "Most people call that a month," he says as he takes the box from her. She's smiling that uber polite Kitty-smile that sometimes scares the crap out of him. He knows he's lucky to be dating her (and, hell, he knows she's lucky to be dating him, _preach_ ), but sometimes she terrifies him. "And I... didn't get you anything."  
  
"Oh, that's completely fine. But if you forget our sixth month, then getting all up on this will be a distant memory," she says sweetly, her high-pony bouncing behind her head. She's sitting on the brick McKinley sign out front at the school, and she re-crosses her legs. Praise Jesus for Cheerio skirts.  
  
He forgets he has a present in his hands as he unabashedly stares at Kitty's thighs until she nudges his shoulder with the toe of her shoe. "Well? Anniversary, hello, I got you the perfect thing you need."  
  
"Oh, right, yeah, let's see," he says, looking down at the package. It's not wrapped, so at least she's not treating this _too_ seriously. He turns the box over. _BreatheRight nose strips_  
  
"Oh, uh... wow, Kitty, you shouldn't have," he says, flattening his lips in a thin line as he squints up into the sun and looks at her. "I mean, really, you shouldn't have."  
  
"Look, I like spending the night and getting our freak on as much as the next Christian girl in high school, but I need my beauty sleep if I'm going to be at my best. And, Artie? I am _always_ at my best, mmmkay?"  
  
"Mmmmmm- _kay_ ," Artie mocks, tossing the box into her lap. "Thanks but no thanks," he says. "Kitty, that's totally rude."  
  
"How is that _rude_? I went out and bought these with the risk that the guy at the cash register would think _I_ snore. I took a serious risk to _my_ image getting _you_ something that would make it so _we_ could spend more time together. Peacefully." Kitty hops down off the brick and stands in front of him with her hands on her hips and her diva game face on. At least she's blocking the sun now.  
  
"Girl, you know I've got asthma up to here," Artie says, raising his hand over his head. "And this?" He takes the box back from Kitty, shaking it up at her and using it to gesture at her up and down. "Is practically a hate speech, and you also know I got the ACLU on speed dial."  
  
"Oh, please," she says, and Artie raises his eyebrows pointedly until she relents with a sigh and rolls her eyes. "Oh my God, fine, hold on, I have to dissimilate." He has no idea what she means until she turns her back to him (something he is not complaining about with the way her skirt curves over her butt just so and seriously, _praise those skirts_ ) and reaches up, pulling the scrunchy out of her hair and releasing her high-pony.  
  
Artie almost gasps because she's never done that in public. It took, like, three dates, five makeout sessios, and two rounds of hardcore sex (if he does say so himself) for him to see her without the high-pony in the privacy of one of their houses. He won't claim to understand cheerleader logic, but he knows that Head Bitch never goes without the high-pony.  
  
Her hair falls down around her shoulders, puffed up a little on top where it still wants to form the shape of her ponytail, even without the scrunchy. She shakes it out and unclips the white _Cheerios_ lay over from her cheerleading jacket, folding it up and shoving it in her backpack by Artie's feet.  
  
"There," she says, hands on her hips again but in a less menacing way. She smiles at him, and it's genuine, and Artie sighs in relief. "Okay, let me try that again. I got these for _us_ ," she starts. "I love spending the night with you, and I love..." She trails off, leaning over and brushing her lips along his jaw, "kissing you and..."  
  
Her hand goes to his tie, straightening it a little and then tugging at it, just enough so he can feel it. His throat bobs. " _Being_ with you, in the Biblical sense, Artie Abrams. I just thought that this would... help us both. After all, a good deep breath now and again makes everyone..." her hand trickles down over his sweater to his lap and rubs along his thigh, "feel _good_."  
  
Artie closes his eyes and takes in a shuddering breath. "Curse my eternal sluttiness," he whispers as he hitches his backpack off his handles and shoves the box of nose strips inside right before his mom pulls up. Kitty, who has impeccable timing and seventh sense for moms apparently, hops off his lap and back onto the McKinley sign, legs primly crossed and a pristine smile on her face.  
  
"Hey, Mrs. Abrams," she says as his mom slides open the side door of their van and lowers the lift. Kitty pushes Artie onto the lift and cranks up her charm like she wasn't just feeling up his mom's only child. "My mom is sending over meatloaf and cherry pie for dinner. I hope that's all right."  
  
Artie is in awe of her skills.  
  
  
  
"You know, for most couples this takes some element of sneaking," Kitty says as she swings Artie's legs up into the bed. Artie shifts himself down and lies back on his small mountain of pillows as he takes his glasses off and watches Kitty's fuzzy outline walk around the bed and then slide under the covers beside him. "It's still kind of weird that your mom lets me spend the night."  
  
"My mom's cool," Artie says. They kind of had to get really close after the accident and stay that way, given how up close and personal some of her tender loving care had to be before Artie could really navigate his chair. "Honestly, I think she's relieved that I really can... you know."  
  
"Do the do?" Kitty supplies, smirking. "I'm glad you can too. But still, she's not like most moms."  
  
"No, she's better," Artie says. "And I love her, but can we stop talking about my mom so you can get all up on this?"  
  
Kitty pounces with a grin.  
  
  
  
  
"Stop it," Kitty murmurs, hours later in the pitch blackness. They've been asleep for hours. It's probably early in the morning by now but not an acceptable time to be awake.  
  
"Stop what," Artie mumbles, reaching up to scratch at the strip across the bridge of his nose. It vaguely tingles, and it's weird to scrunch his nose and _feel_ it there... on his face. He's not really a fan, but ah, the price of true love.  
  
"You were snoring," Kitty says, rolling over on her side so her back is to him. "It's hella loud."  
  
Artie frowns in the dark and refuses to open his eyes, clinging to the last few moments of sleepiness he has. "A'ight, look, I am wearing this nose thing. I cannot help it if my lungs closely resemble the smooth purr of a Corvette."  
  
"Never say that again," Kitty says. "Maybe you need two."  
  
"I'm not wearing two." Artie sighs and reaches up, patting the strip more firmly in place. Maybe if it sticks better, he won't wake Kitty up again with what is apparently the loudest snoring in the known universe.  
  
Kitty turns over again and snuggles up closer to him, pressing her head against his chest. He slips one arm around her and smiles to himself because maybe she's giving in, but then she grabs her pillow and presses it over her hearing is muffled by it and his chest.  
  
Artie opens his mouth to say something because _really_? But whatever. He just wants to sleep. He'll call her out on treating her man wrong in the morning.  
  
  
  
There's a low grumbling roar coming from Kitty's side of the bed. It's loud enough to wake Artie up, his eyes blinking blearily in the dark as they try to adjust. He hates leaving lights on at night, and without his glasses, it's not like he can see anything anyway, so instead he holds his breath and listens. The sound happens again, a low exhalation of breath that rounds out into a growl. _God_ is that Kitty? Is that what Kitty _sounds like_? She's still tucked against him, but the pillow has fallen off her head and is resting against his arm. He so wants to get his phone out and record this because if she snores like there's a small army from Hell in her chest, then he is going to make her _bathe_ in these stupid nose strips.  
  
Artie listens as the huffs of breath get closer together, almost like laughter, barely spaced apart. The growl is interrupted by a snort, and then Kitty smacks Artie's chest.  
  
"Seriously," she groans, her voice croaky with sleep, "I think it's gotten worse."  
  
"What the hell, that is totally you," Artie says, peering down at the top of her head. "You sound like the ninth circle of Hell."  
  
"Yeah well you sound like a freight train," Kitty says, tugging her knees up to her chest until they're two rounded points poking into his side. "Just... breathe less."  
  
Artie blinks. "Breathe less? Gee, thanks, Kitty, I'm so -" He breaks off as another rumbling breath sounds. That definitely wasn't him since he was mid-tirade, and Kitty has never breathed like _that_ when she was awake. Not even when she's mid major catfight with that neckbrace girl.  
  
There's a twitch in the sound, a change, and Artie's gaze darts around in the dark, trying to map out his room. Another little tear, and it sounds like... like fabric ripping? Then again, that eerie huff of a laugh and another slow _riiiiiiiiiip_...  
  
"Uh," he says just as Kitty pushes herself up on his chest and looks down at him.  
  
 _Heh heh... riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip..._  
  
"That's not -" Kitty says, and Artie shakes his head. His heart is trapped in his throat and beating a mile a minute. What the _hell_?  
  
They both look over to the abandoned side of the bed at the same time to see one long, broken fingernail raking down Artie's sheet and tearing the cloth, stitch by stitch. Artie swallows and doesn't remember how to breathe as he follows the shadowed outline of a gnarled hand to a boney arm to a pair of two bright, yellow eyes, sitting in the foggy black and peering over the edge of the bed. A second hand joins the first, four jagged claws reaching out of the dark, straining desperately toward them, and then digging into the mattress and tearing down.  
  
 _Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip..._ Then another growling laugh.


	3. Close to You

  
  
It is officially one week until Rachel's Broadway debut as _Funny Girl_ 's Fanny Brice. She and Santana both have been coming home later and later from rehearsals and usually with some article of clothing missing (like jackets because they want to freeze to death instead of perform). Santana seems pretty confident, at-ease with herself, but then again, Kurt's pretty sure he's never seen her _not_ confident and at-ease with herself.  
  
Rachel, on the other hand... Kurt sighs. Rachel has officially gotten into pre-show mode, and it's hilariously unchanged from high school or basic NYADA stuff. Except for how Broadway is the big leagues, so her preparation and superstitions and restrictions are so, so much worse.  
  
"Between the hours of seven and two, I will not speak," Rachel says at the start of the week. Kurt's not surprised. Santana quips about how relieved she is, but Kurt wants to roll his eyes when he sees Rachel's white board come out. Here it comes.  
  
After rehearsal one night, they're both really exhausted, and it's late. Kurt's actually awake because the loft gets kind of drafty, so he was warming himself up some milk, but he makes hot cocoa instead when he hears them clomping up the stairs, Rachel chattering a mile a minute.  
  
"Oh my God, thank you. Please silence the short one," Santana says as she claims a mug and brings it to her lips, taking a long swallow and then heading to the couch. She doesn't even undress before flopping down onto it, hot cocoa miraculously unspilled. She looks exhausted.  
  
"Kurt, there are five days until I am on the Broadway stage, which means all my dreams are coming true. All my dreams cannot come true if this coffee table continues being five inches to the right. I pace, Kurt. You know my regimen. I have to pace 156 steps every night before bed or else my excess energy will cancel out the effects of my beauty sleep. I cannot effectively pace if your coffee table is in my path."  
  
"Shut uuuuuuuup," Santana groans, setting her empty mug on said coffee table and then rolling over, pressing her face into her pillow on one end of the couch. "Rachel, I will freaking burn your hot mess self if you don't shut up."  
  
Kurt blinks. "Did something happen at rehearsal, or...?" He hates feeling this out of the loop, especially when it comes to Broadway.  
  
"What? Oh, no, rehearsal was perfect!" Rachel says. "My home life, however..."  
  
Santana raises up long enough to chuck her pillow right at Rachel's head, hitting her square in the jaw with it. Rachel gasps, blinking and shocked silent for a moment. Long enough for Kurt to grab her shoulders and steer her over to the kitchen nook.  
  
"I know what you need," Kurt says. He takes the other cup of cocoa over to the stove and pulls their lone bottle of rum out of a cabinet, combining a generous serving of it with the hot cocoa in a taller glass. "And a little cinnamon liqueur for spice," he says as Rachel whispers incessantly to him that they need to talk about the stairs in this place since she cannot walk backwards without breaking her neck down them, and she simply _must_ walk backwards on her way to the stage. There's something about channeling the Rachel Berry stardom of her youth, but Kurt is sleepy and only half paying attention.  
  
He guides the glass into Rachel's hands and brings it to her lips. She takes a sip and then purrs. "Oh my goodness, Kurt, this is amazing," she says. She downs the glass so quickly that Kurt's surprised she didn't burn her tongue, and she holds out the glass to him. "Can I have some more?"  
  
Thirty minutes and four cups of helpfully spiked hot cocoa later, Rachel stands up from their table with purpose. "I... have to pee," she announces before giggling. She takes Kurt's hand and pulls him with her.  
  
"Rachel? I'm not going to help you pee, there are lines," Kurt says as he stumbles after her, trying doubly hard not to wake up Santana since Rachel's not trying at all.  
  
"No, silly, you have to protect me! From the monsters," Rachel says, heading past the couch and into the bathroom door with a giggled "Oops!" before she remembers how to open it. "Now, check for monsters."  
  
"Are you serious," Kurt asks, even as he sighs and sticks his head into the bathroom, turning the lights on. "Okay, no monsters, all clear. Go pee."  
  
Rachel salutes and stumbles up the slight step and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Kurt stands guard, leaning against the wall with one foot kicked up and his arms crossed in front of his chest. He has no idea what Rachel would want _him_ to do in the event of monsters other than throw some sheet music at them and hope their fear of classical opera scares them away.  
  
Rachel finally opens the door again and loudly proclaims, "I'm going to bed," as she hops down and heads to her curtained-off bedroom. She takes Kurt's hand again, dragging him behind her, and then flops up onto her bed, apparently foregoing her own nightly ritual and intending to sleep dressed just how she is, shoes and all. Kurt hopes that maybe she's wasted enough to get a good night's sleep but not too wasted tomorrow to rehearse because if that were the case, she'd never forgive Kurt.  
  
He's about to turn around and head back to the warm embrace of his own bed when Rachel purrs his name. "Kurt... Kurrrrrrt, check under the bed, Kurt."  
  
Kurt sighs for the umpteenth time and doesn't turn around. "There's no monsters under the bed, Rachel." He's going to have to ask her about this tomorrow. It's probably some deep metaphor about her inner turmoils or something.  
  
"No, no no no, you have to... you have to look, Kurt. You have to see." When he turns around, Rachel is sprawled on top of her bed, every limb reaching a different corner and her big brown eyes pleading with him.  
  
"Oh my God, fine," he snaps, a little too sleepy. And perhaps he won't get her _this_ drunk tomorrow. He goes over to her bed and kneels down on one knee, pulling her quilt up and peering under the bed. It's empty, save for her shoe collection pull-out in one corner. "Coast is clear," he says, trying his best to smile politely at her. "Now go to sleep."  
  
"Uh-huh, gonna do it. Gonna sleep _so_ good," she says, hiccuping quietly into her pillow. "I mean well. Sleep so well."  
  
"You're ridiculous," Kurt says fondly, squeezing her shoulder and then walking out.  
  
  
  
As the first performance grows closer, Kurt's little hot chocolate recipe becomes welcomed into Rachel's strict regimen. Santana tasted some the second night but claimed she was actually too exhausted to drink but as long as it kept Berry quiet, she was a fan. So mostly Kurt and Rachel spend some post-rehearsal time drinking until Rachel's eyes start to droop and she actually looks sleepy.  
  
"There are just... there are ghosts, you know?" Rachel says, slumped down in her folding chair. She accidentally wore her Fanny wig home, and now it sits on top of her head askew so one side is longer than the other. The first chance he gets, Kurt's telling Blaine how proud he ought to be that Kurt resisted laughing for at least two hours.  
  
"Ghosts," Kurt says, nodding. This complaint has been a common theme. Apparently the cast and crew have taken to picking on the new girl, in a goodnatured sort of way, but they've been trying to spook her on set by telling her all the stories of Broadway ghosts. It's common knowledge that all stages are haunted, and the more remarkable a stage, the more dreadfully haunted it is, of course. Artists are emotional, and it's no surprise they're going to meet the white light and turn around, deciding to stick around to finish unfinished business instead.  
  
Not that Kurt believes in ghosts, and he's pretty sure Rachel doesn't either - not _really_ \- but get Rachel drunk and apparently all she can talk about is how the stage is haunted, the theatre is haunted, her castmates are haunted...  
  
 _Everything_ is haunted.  
  
"Okay, Rachel, up and at 'em, time for bed," Kurt says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. This lack of sleep is taking its toll on his carefully maintained physique.  
  
"Okay but come with me," Rachel says, eyes wide, just like she does every night. Kurt helps her up and Rachel stumbles and giggles, inspite of how scared she supposedly is. "Oooh everything is dizzy."  
  
"That's just you," Kurt says. They start to head for Rachel's curtain, and Rachel bangs into the antique black dentist chair Kurt found just hanging out on the sidewalk and commandered for his own personal use. Rachel cracks up laughing right behind where Santana's snoring away on the couch, and Kurt rushes in front of her, putting one finger against her lips. " _Rachel_ ," he hisses. "Shhhhhh."  
  
"Oh right right monsters," Rachel whispers with a nod. They swish open her curtains and walk through, and Rachel bounces down onto her bed. "Now, Kurt. Ghosts. Monsters. And ghosts." She picks up the edge of her comforter to reveal the underside of the bed, and Kurt bends down to look under there like he does every night now.  
  
"Not a thing, Rachel. Safe and sound," he says. "Go to _sleep_." Once she's passed out, he'll put a glass of water and two aspirins on her bedside table, but he's not risking going back in there now and grabbing her attention again, he thinks with an enormous yawn.  
  
  
  
"Get some booze in this dingle-Berry stat," Santana says as she slides the heavy loft door shut. She shucks her coat and puts it on a hook before falling gracelessly onto the couch. "I have my own pre-non-Broadway-debut-unless-Rachel-breaks-her-neck-before-morning ritual, and its name is Hell's Kitchen season three."  
  
Kurt's jaw drops. "I thought you weren't going to watch that without me?" he says, sulking. It's been on the DVR for forever now; they've been planning an epic food binge marathon, but that was before Santana became Rachel's understudy.  
  
"Desperate times call for desperate measures. I need to channel my feelings into Gordon Ramsay's rage. This is cathartic for me," Santana says evenly, open palm resting over her heart. She curls up on her couch and clicks the television on.  
  
"It's, like, one in the morning," Kurt says, squinting as the tv's glow envelopes the whole room in its staticy brightness.  
  
"I'm sorry, is there a problem or are you just trying to drown out Gordon's soothing, burning anger for meanness?" Santana asks, glaring at him. She snaps her fingers. "Ice cream, bring it."  
  
"And I thought one diva was challenging enough," Kurt mumbles under his breath even as he shuffles to the freezer and pulls out Santana's pint of caramel turtle cheesecake ice cream (that he has stolen more than a few spoonfuls of). "Here," he says as he hands it over. "Now retract the claws."  
  
Santana shoos him away with some noncommittal noise and focuses on the television as Gordon starts telling the kitchen they're _CRAP! It's all fucking garbage_!  
  
"So," Kurt begins, trying to drown it out of his brain. He slides into his chair across the table from Rachel, who's sitting there practically frozen, a far off look in her eyes. "Are... you okay?"  
  
"I'm fine," Rachel says. She blinks and finally looks at him, shaking her head a little. "I'm sorry. Pre-show jitters, I think."  
  
"At least you're talking and not wearing any of your clothes inside out like you did before NYADA's mid-semester showing of _The Taming of the Shrew: the country-western remix_ ," Kurt says. He reaches across the table and lays his hand on top of Rachel's, but she immediately jerks it back, her eyes wide and dark. "Ra...chel...?" His hand feels clammy after touching hers; she was ice cold. "Do you need me to give the heater another kick?" It's so old and rattley they don't keep it on unless they have to, and the loft isn't that cold, but maybe she's literally worried herself sick and is coming down with something.  
  
"No, I'm fine," she says before standing. "I think I'm going to go to bed." She tilts her head a little and then slides a smile on her face. "I need to be well-rested for my show tomorrow."  
  
"...okay," Kurt says. "I can make you some hot chocolate to take to bed with you. I won't even spike it if you don't want." Normally he'd be thanking whatever God doesn't exist for this reprieve since he has to be up in five hours for his morning Vogue.com shift and then three classes at NYADA before picking up Dani's shift at the Spotlight. But normally Rachel doesn't seem this... well, levelheaded, especially not right before a show.  
  
"No, thank you," Rachel says. She disappears around the shelving partition they've found to partially segment the kitchen off and heads to the bathroom. Kurt follows her quietly and waits outside, frowning when he hears a small, terrified whimper muffled through the door.  
  
"Rachel?" There's no answer.  
  
A moment later, he hears a scrape of.. something, possibly coming from the sink, and then a muffled, pitiful, "No..."  
  
"Rachel? You're scaring me," Kurt says, jiggling the handle. It's locked, but if he needs to, he's pretty sure he can budge it open. "Rachel?"  
  
There's dead silence and then the door flies open, only to reveal Rachel, calmly standing before him in the doorway. "Yes, Kurt?" she asks, giving him a polite smile. "Did you say something?"  
  
"...you sounded kind of weird. Are you _sure_ you're okay?"  
  
"Just perfect," Rachel says. "I'm going to bed."  
  
Kurt follows behind her, concerned. When Rachel whips her bedcurtain open with a flourish, for a moment, he thinks he sees two of them, the line around Rachel blurred. He shakes his head and blinks until his vision is focused. That was weird.  
  
He stands outside Rachel's curtain for a second. Maybe she's not too exhausted to change tonight and that's why she hasn't asked him to check under the bed yet. But five minutes pass, then ten...  
  
The droning of Hell's Kitchen continues behind him, and he halfway listens as he waits for Rachel's call. Finally, he puts one hand over his eyes and flings the curtain open.  
  
"For the love of God, tell me you're decent," he says, peeking through his fingers. She is, thankfully. Sheets pulled up and bed clothes on. She rolls over to face him with that same polite smile from before.  
  
"Can I help you, Kurt?" she asks sweetly.  
  
Kurt frowns. "I... Uh." He feels stupid now, barging in to look for monsters. "Don't you want me to, um... check under your bed?" She doesn't say anything for a moment, just looks at him, so Kurt continues, "You know, for monsters."  
  
The words feel weird in his mouth, mostly because they feel so normal now. He stands there, feeling foolish, until Rachel's smile spreads across her face. It's almost wolfish.  
  
"Of course you can," she says, fingers tapping on the covers over and over. She probably is impatient to get to sleep. Kurt's face is starting to burn. Maybe she'll be too wrapped up in her show tomorrow to think about this or think he's a total idiot.  
  
He kneels down and lifts up the comforter as Rachel's shadow starts to peer over the edge before she does, shrouding the light from Kurt's view.  
  
Kurt ducks his head to peer underneath, and even in the darkened shadows the shape of a person is unmistakable. He's about to drop the quilt and throw himself back, run for his toolkit or his mace or his _phone_ oh God they need to call 911 and the police and his dad and _somebody_ , but then there's an arm jutting out, one small hand wrapping around his wrist.  
  
Kurt opens his mouth but can't speak, can't make a sound, and he can feel Rachel behind him, peering over the edge of the bed, her breath cold on his neck. He stares down under the bed as the person pulls closer, sliding into the barest bit of revealing light left.  
  
It's Rachel.  
  
Well, it's a body - a _person_ \- there who looks like Rachel. It looks just like Rachel's there, under the bed, staring up at him. She looks so terrified he doesn't know what to say. "Kurt," Rachel whispers, frantic and hushed. The Rachel above exhales coolly behind him as the new Rachel's gaze never waives from Kurt's face, pleading silently with him.  
  
"Kurt," she says again, her whisper almost a squeak. "There's someone in my bed."


	4. Goodbye Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See notes at the end for spoilery information as to who dies and how.

  
  
"Waaaaaake up," is the first thing she hears followed by a gently pinching tug on her right pinky toe. The sneaking hand creeps up her leg, tiptoeing fingertips walking up her calf and then scratching lightly behind her knee, tickling her. She's too sleepy to kick her leg away, so she lets it happen, tipping her head further into the downy softness of her pillow to muffle her laughter.  
  
"Wake uuuuuuuuuup," again is called, and the strolling fingers flatten out until a broad palm is smoothing up her thigh and then over the curve of her ass. God, she still can't believe she's _naked_ in a boy's bedroom. After having _sex_! She wriggles a little and groans quietly when every muscle fights against movement. Who knew sex could be so exhausting?  
  
"Tiiiiiiina, I know you're iiiiiin there." It's ridiculous how much of a morning person he is, she thinks. She makes another grumbly noise and rolls over on her stomach, clutching her pillow for dear life (it smells like his shampoo).  
  
She feels Mike stretch out beside her, all lean muscles and long legs as he presses against her side. He's already put on clothes. Crap, he's probably already gone for, like, a _jog_ or something. Is this what their life is gonna be like? She hasn't explicitly thought about marriage yet, but she knows that Mike's a pretty strong candidate. She could see herself being with him forever. You know, after college and a successful career where her face is plastered on the sides of buses and she has a few seasons of an Emmy-nominated, meaty role under her belt.  
  
Mike drapes his arm over her back on top of the sheet and presses a warm, soft kiss to her bare shoulder. "What'll it take to get you out of bed?" he whispers.  
  
Tina shrugs one shoulder. "Mm, don't most boys try to get girls _in_ their beds?" She wiggles her hips a little. "Look at that, girl in your bed. Check. Now can I sleep?"  
  
"But the sun is shining," Mike says. "Most people are awake when the sun is shining."  
  
Tina sighs and scoots a little closer to him, enjoying his warmth and what she can feel of the soft cotton shirt he's put on. "Mm, Saturday, no sun," she murmurs. Maybe if she starts pretending to snore, he'll let her have a five or six hour long cat nap.  
  
"I made breakfast," he says. "Your favorite breakfast."  
  
"Cold pineapple and chicken pizza?" she asks, peeking one eye open and immediately closing it. He has the _curtains_ open, how dare he.  
  
"... second favorite."  
  
"Ooooh, pancakes," she says, stretching a little. She can feel herself waking up, the more coherent she lets her sentences be. She stretches her feet, flexing her ankles and pointing her toes straight out. It's a start.  
  
"Does that mean you're getting out of bed?" Mike asks, even as he starts to creep the sheet up enough so that a slight breeze hits her side. She rolls a little, protecting her delicate, sleep-warm skin from the evil air monster.  
  
She sighs. "No, but you're getting warmer," she says into her pillow as she tenses and relaxes first her calves then her thighs. It wasn't like they had super acrobatic sex, so why do her _legs_ hurt?  
  
"And I created a playlist just for us and brought you your laptop so you can Facebook before you start the day?" Mike says. Tina laughs quietly and Mike sneaks his hand under the sheet, exposing her side again. She thinks he's about to tickle her and she's going to have to kill him, which would be tragic for her eventual marriage plans. Instead, he slips his fingers up, curled so that his knuckles are brushing the side of her boob. It's weird; her boobs are pressed against the mattress, but she can still feel the tell-tale tightening of her nipples at his touch. She shifts a little, rolling onto her left side so that Mike's fingers can graze over her nipple. He cups her breast almost immediately, and Tina's starting to _really_ wake up when he just... squeezes, obnoxiously. Twice.  
  
"Honk," he deadpans with some more squeezes. "Honk, honk."  
  
"I hope that's not your playlist," Tina says as she giggles and squirms in his hold until she can roll around to her other side, facing him.  
  
Mike grins at her. His hair is still a complete mess, so maybe he hasn't been up too long after all. "So, am I getting warmer?"  
  
"A little," she says. "What else you got?"  
  
"A million dollars on a silver platter, but you have to leave the bed to follow a trail to find it," Mike says. He pauses, then adds thoughtfully, "And it's invisible."  
  
"Wow, magic invisible money that I have to _find_ and can't even spend at the mall?" She throws one arm over his shoulder and presses a smacking kiss to his cheek. "Oh, Mike, darling, you shouldn't have."  
  
"What can I say, I'm an awesome boyfriend."  
  
  
  
Mike's parents are actually out for the whole weekend, and of course, Mike not only has a strict curfew but also a "no Tina rule." Tina sighs. Parents must know better, right? Of course they're going to break the no Tina rule. It's practically screaming to be broken. And they've fooled around at Tina's house a few times and in Mike's car, but they want to have _sex_. Maybe a whole weekend of sex.  
  
So, Tina stays over Saturday night too, and it's awesome, going to bed with Mike. God, he makes her feel amazing. She's the luckiest girl in the world, and she's only a junior in high school.  
  
It's a lot earlier Sunday morning when Mike wakes her up this time.  
  
"Tina," he says, sounding urgent. "Tina, wake up." His hand is on her hip, and seriously, if he's waking her up for a quickie, she's going to brain him in the head with her pillow. She turns her face into her pillow, breathing in his smell, and ignores him.  
  
"I'm sleeping," she says, and Mike shakes her hip, just a little. "Tina, this is important." He sounds panicked.  
  
"What is it?" she groans, lifting her head just long enough to turn it and flop it back down on her pillow so she's at least facing him. Mike meets her eyes in the dark, once they've adjusted to the dim lighting, and he looks pale, frightened. She lifts her head up a little. "Mike?"  
  
"Shhhhh," Mike says, bringing his hand up to comb through her hair, pushing it off her shoulder and cupping her cheek. "There's something... I keep thinking I hear something."  
  
Tina's eyes grow wide. "Oh God, are your _parents_ home early? They said they wouldn't be here until this afternoon!" Her mind immediately goes a mile a minute because she can't even remember where her dress _is_. God, they might've left it in the dryer after they had sex in the laundry room. Oh God, oh crap.  
  
"No," Mike says. "It's not them." That's when Tina takes in that once again he's dressed, in pajamas, but still. She looks back over her shoulder and sees his curtain not quite opened but ruffled, wrinkled where he'd pulled it back to look out his window, which overlooks the driveway. Normally there's two cars there: Mike's and his parents', but this weekend has just been the one.  
  
Then there's a noise. It's distant, coming from all the way downstairs, but distinctly banging. Someone's moving around downstairs, someone who's knocking stuff around. It can't be Mike's parents. They are unnaturally quiet people.  
  
Tina gasps. "Is someone... is someone robbing your _house_?" she asks, her voice squeaking at the end. She bolts up in bed, the sheets pooling at her waist, and she leans over Mike's lap to try and see into the hallway through Mike's open door. There's another bang and some muffled words. Is there more than one person? She thinks so.  
  
"Mike, someone's robbing your house," she says. "We have to... we have to do something. We have to stop them."  
  
Mike bites his lip and shakes his head. "Tina, there is no way that we're going to stop them. You know, I think... I think I'll go try to close the door, and we can call the police."  
  
"The police. Right, yeah, definitely," Tina says. She leans back, trying to be as quiet as she can as she reaches back to pat at the empty top of Mike's nightstand. Wait, where are their phones? "Mike, where's our phones?" she asks, patting the top again like they'll magically appear.  
  
Mike's mouth falls open. "They're downstairs," he says. "Remember, we watched Breaking Bad last night and then..."  
  
Tina flushes. "Right, then we got distracted by coming up here to have sex. Oh, great, this is fantastic."  
  
The noise downstairs abruptly becomes eerily silent, and Mike claps his hand over Tina's mouth. "Shhhhh, we can just... we can let them leave. We'll call when they're gone," Mike whispers.  
  
Tina wishes they had some lights turned on or something. She can barely see anything, and everything in the darkness looks like a robber's shadow all of a sudden. She nods and shakes Mike's hand off. "Yeah, we can wait for them to come upstairs and murder us," she hisses. "Mike, we have to get our phones. We have to call the cops."  
  
Mike bites his lip and stares at the doorway. "I know," he says. "I'll... I'll go down and get it. I can be really quiet. I'll wait and listen for them to see where they are and sneak behind them." He's rambling now, and Tina watches his chest rise and fall as he takes in a shuddery breath. "I can do this."  
  
"Um, not by yourself you're not," she says. "Michael Chang, you are not going to go down there on your own!"  
  
Mike shakes his head and looks over at her, brows furrowed. "You're not dressed. And no matter what, I'm not going to let them... you know, _hurt_ you. What if they're not _just_ robbers?"  
  
Tina looks down and feels stupid for just now really realizing that she's naked. She could put something of Mike's on, but suddenly every horror story about men that her mother and the internet have ever told her flashes in her head. Her hands tremble.  
  
Mike slides off the bed and up to his feet more quietly than Tina ever could've hoped to imagine. He's been teaching her a lot about dance and to be in tune with her body, but he's more advanced than she is. That's why he's going to go to Julliard, come hell or high water. He moves with a silent fluidity that almost makes him seem like a ghost.  
  
He'll be fine, she tells herself. She gets up out of bed and tiptoes, slowly, to the door as he slips out of the doorway. Mike looks back at her and gives her a small smile, and as her eyes continue to adjust to the ever pressing darkness, she can see that he's terrified. She's scared too.  
  
"I'll be right back," he says, hushed, and Tina nods, reaching out in a blind panic to grip his wrist and stop him. She slides her hand down into his and squeezes quickly, not trusting herself to talk. The noises downstairs start up again a moment after they paused, and she can hear the low hum of voices in conversation and something scraping across the hardwood floor.  
  
She can just barely see the heather gray of his t-shirt in the darkness as he nimbly moves down the stairs until he's too far out of sight and the darkness has swallowed him up. She inches away from the doorway and eyes the door handle. If she closes it, that means shutting Mike out until he's back and what if he needs to get back in in a hurry?  
  
She ducks behind the door at least, hiding in the shadowed corner and drawing her knees up to her chest. She holds her breath as she listens. All is calm, save for the men still moving around and _stealing things_. She can't hear Mike, but of course she can't. Honestly, it's a good thing he's a good person or else he'd make a better thief than either of these guys put together.  
  
Just as she lets her breath out in a quiet _wooooosh_ , she hears "Hey!" and "What the -" followed immediately by the finality of a bang.  
  
Her heart stops.  
  
Oh God, was that a gun? Did they have a gun? There's a moment where it feels like the whole world has stopped spinning and then there's a muffled thud of something hitting the floor.  
  
Oh God.  
  
Downstairs, there's haphazard running and "Oh, shit! You fucking shot him! Oh, shit no no no leave the shit, get out of here!" and doors yanking open and then slamming shut.  
  
Every sound makes her jump.  
  
Tina can't move but she _has_ to move, has to _go_. She has to check on Mike, but Mike wanted her to stay up here. What if they're faking? What if they're not really gone?  
  
It takes all her energy, but she pushs herself up. No matter what, she has to get to their phones. She has to... she has to call 911, has to do something. She's about to whip around the door and head downstairs, robbers be damned, when there's a faint blue glow on the floor beside the bed.  
  
Tina feels the last zap of her energy draining out of her. Her lips press together in a thin line. The tiny blue light on the back of her laptop flickers almost as if in greeting, and she shakes her head. They could've... this whole time...  
  
She has to act. She can't think. She has to act.  
  
She stumbles over to her laptop and kneels beside it, opening it up. The screen lighting is harsh against her eyes and she winces, even as she works on autopilot to pull up Skype. She double clicks on the emergency button, glad her location was saved long ago, and waits for Skype to dial 911.  
  
"Lima Dispatch, what is your emergency?"  
  
  
  
Everyone says that senior year, Tina's changed. Artie tells her that she used to be so nice to everyone, now she's the school's biggest bitch. People call her a diva, tell her to stop crying, stop demanding attention, stop _changing_ so much.  
  
People were sympathetic at first, especially the Glee club. Everyone was shocked at what had happened at the end of junior year. But most of the people there who knew Mike best had graduated. There's not really anyone to talk to. They do Grease, and Tina can't drown herself in that because Finn gives her the smallest main part in history. Everyone else does solos, fully-fledged, non-interrupted solos, on a weekly basis, and she doesn't, so she sits there, and sways, and thinks.  
  
Apparently grief has a time limit. It can make you crazy for a while, but then you're supposed to just... move on, like nothing ever happened. Like Mike didn't die. Like Tina's supposed to go on with school and life, supposed to dance without Mike. How can she dance without Mike?  
  
Kurt suggested she change schools, right after it happened, when Kurt was probably the only one who really understood what she was going through. When Tina had to fight with Mike's parents to keep his pillow, Kurt understood. Tina wishes now she'd listened because McKinley is full of too many memories. When she closes her locker, she expects to see him there. When she rounds the corner into the cafeteria, there he's supposed to be, holding his tray with one hand and offering to balance hers with the other, all while popping and locking his shoulders just to show off.  
  
His pillows don't smell like him anymore, not really. She's slept with them every night, hasn't washed the pillowcases even though her mom has begged her to. They just smell like her now, like her skin and her body wash, all covering up Mike's shampoo.  
  
She misses his smile.  
  
Every time someone bangs a locker closed, it's a gunshot, and whenever Blaine and Sam and the boys slide the chairs around during their performances, it's furniture being dragged. She cries almost as much in the choir room as she does at home. It was her fault, and everything in her life is here to remind her of that nigh. If she'd seen her laptop sooner, remembered that they'd left it upstairs, that it was _right there_. If she'd just been able to _think_.  
  
Or if she'd gone down there with him. She could've pushed him out of the way, could've jumped on them, could've... anything better than what happened could have happened.  
  
Jake climbs up on a chair, one foot raised up on the back of it, and tilts it backwards during his musical number of the week. Not only is that something that Mike used to do, but once he jumps off, the chair clatters to the ground. _Bang_!  
  
 _"Hey!" "What the-" "You fucking shot him!"_  
  
Tina's crying before she realizes it. The band kind of trails off; she hears Jake going "Man, I forgot..." to Blaine, and she hunches over, hiding her face in her hands. If he were here, he'd drape his arm over her back, pull her into his chest. She could smell his cologne and just rest against him. He was so good at comforting her.  
  
"Tina..." Blaine trails off, coming to sit by her and rest a hand on her back. "It's okay," he says. She's grateful to him for trying, but it still doesn't really help. She sucks it up, though. She has to to survive. A few more weeks, and she'll be accepted into a school that'll have to take her, and she'll be able to leave all of this behind, once and for all.  
  
  
  
It's always hard to sleep now, even wound around his pillow like she is. It takes hours to drift off into a decent night's sleep and by then it feels like it's time to get up again.  
  
She's just drifting off when she hears a quiet, "Tina."  
  
If this is a dream, she thinks, she's going to enjoy it. She can feel him squeeze her hip. "Tina, wake up."  
  
"Five more minutes," she murmurs, unsure if it's in the dream or in real life. She doesn't care. He feels so warm.  
  
"Tina, you have to wake up." There's that edge of panic in his voice again, and Tina's eyes immediately fly open. She stares at blank wall across the room from her and doesn't dare turn around.  
  
She can still feel him lying there, pressed against her back. There's five fingertips digging into her hip, and his breath tickles the hair at the back of her neck that escaped her braids. "It's important, Tina, wake up."  
  
Tina can't breathe. It's him. He's back. But he... he can't be. She wants to roll over, wants to see him, but she's not sure if she's really awake or what she'll see. Honestly, she's so scared she'll roll over and see nothing at all.  
  
"I'm awake," she whispers as she keeps staring at the wall. His hand moves up to her waist. She can feel his touch, and it's _his_ , no one else's. She'd know his hands anywhere. He's tugging at her waist to turn her around, get her to lie on her back, but she refuses. She wraps her arms tighter around his pillow and inhales deeply, chasing any last fragments of his scent as she resists the insistent tug at her waist. If she turns over, he'll disappear. If she turns over, he won't look like himself or... or...  
  
"Get up, Tina," Mike says, slightly louder, but right in her ear. She can feel his lips ghosting against her skin, and she shivers. "You have to get up."  
  
"No, please," she whimpers. She doesn't want to leave him. Whatever this is, she doesn't want it to end. She'd never believed in ghosts until now.  
  
"Tina...," Mike says, and he sounds... sad. Then she hears a noise down the hall. "Tina, there's someone in the house."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike is killed by home intruders (via non-explicit gunshot), and Tina mourns and begins to deal with her grief over his death. He then returns as a ghost, as per the picture prompt.


	5. Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminders of the language usage in this chapter in the notes at the end.

  
  
"Ugh," Kurt groans into the phone as he rolls over on his bed to lay on his stomach. "Rachel Berry thinks she's God's gift to Broadway, but I've been singing Defying Gravity since my _cradle_ , okay. And she could let me have this. Ever since Mr. Schue took over the Glee club, who's been getting solo-palooza? Rachel. Whose star is not shining as it should be? _Kurt Hummel_."  
  
"Or Mercedes Jones, thank you," Mercedes says. Kurt loves that she's always down for a little friendly Rachel hate. He swears when Rachel's not trying to _ruin his life_ , she's not _that bad_ to be around, but _God_.  
  
"Or Mercedes Jones," he agrees. "Something has to be done because this is practically a hate crime."  
  
"Um..."  
  
"It is a _crime_ to _hate_ on our talent," Kurt modifies. "I can't wait for this competition on Friday because I'm going to blow her out of the water. And I'm going to show Mr. Schue that high-Fs are not _ladies only_. That's so 1950s."  
  
"I'm sure you will," Mercedes says. "Have you practiced?"  
  
"Since the _cradle_ , Mercedes, come on." He takes a breath and rolls over on his back again, hiking one leg up and throwing the other over his raised knee to bounce his foot in the air. He's even multitasking right now, listening to the song in his brain, his foot jiggling to the rhythm, while he chats. Besides, it's not like he could practice right now anyway with the raging storm outside. It's been pouring buckets since he drove home this afternoon and hasn't let up for hours. He wouldn't be able to hear his mastery of that high-F.  
  
The landline rings, which is strange because they don't normally get calls from anyone this late (it's only 8:00 but it's not like they have a wealth of family members eager to call them), and Kurt picks up the cordless extension resting at his hip. He doesn't recognize the number.  
  
"Weird," he murmurs, cutting off Mercedes' tirade about how she's a 'park and bark,' whatever that is.  
  
"What is it?" Mercedes asks.  
  
"Oh, just someone calling here, but I don't know who it is. Hold on." He keeps his cellphone to his right ear but presses talk on the cordless and presses it to his left ear just in time to hear "- _is a fag_ " breathed through the line before it goes dead. His dad doesn't say anything either, just clicks the phone off, and Kurt does the same a second later.  
  
His chest feels tight. He can't breathe, and he barely focuses on his quick "gotta go" to Mercedes before he snaps his flip phone shut. It's not _fair_. It's not fair that someone would harass his dad about him... about... about whatever it is that's wrong with him. He's not _gay_ , not really. He's... he's open-minded, but everyone thinks because he likes fashion and because he's going to wipe the floor with Rachel Berry's tragically shaped hair on Defying Gravity that that somehow means he also likes guys.  
  
Well, he does like guys. Like, he'd like to have friends who are boys. Boys are nice - in general, not the ones at McKinley, _obviously_. He'd have better tastes in boys-who-are-friends than that.  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and hears that voice again, hears that _word_ again. It rolls over him like slime. He can practically feel it starting at his toes and oozing up over his body, pooling first in his heart and then creeping up his neck, strangling him like two foggy hands intent on choking the life out of him.  
  
He doesn't know he's crying until the hot tears rolling down the sides of his face over his temples clue him in. He doesn't know when he started laying ramrod straight, legs and arms locked, hands balled into fists at his sides, like he's ready for burial and a fight all at once. But once he realizes he's crying, he can't stop.  
  
All he has is his dad. He can't lose his dad, can't have his dad thinking that he's... like that, can't have his dad look at him like he's the most disgusting thing all because he... maybe likes boys. That doesn't matter. There's no boys here that interest him, no girls either, so why should it matter what he is? Why should it matter to anyone else to let his dad know? He hasn't done anything wrong, hasn't kissed anyone, hasn't tried to hold any hands, nothing.  
  
There's a crack of lightning and then a booming crash of thunder, followed by a loud _fizz-pop!_ , and then all the house lights go out. The cordless phone beeps three times and is silent. At least now they can't get any calls in until the power comes back on. At least _they_ can't call again.  
  
Kurt turns over on his belly and crosses his arms, pressing his face into them. He cries until his chest hurts, almost missing the first time his dad calls out "Kurt?" from upstairs.  
  
He ignores it. He can't face his dad with a red face, can't face his dad at _all_ right now knowing that he's probably upset and confused about that phone call. He tucks his sleeves over his fists and rubs them roughly over his eyes until they're too sore to cry anymore. He takes in a shuddering breath and looks over at the stairwell leading up out of his basement. It's black, the corner murky and foreboding in the dark. He's usually not bothered by the dark. He lives in a basement after all, so he and the darkness kind of had to become BFFs years ago. But the darkness almost looks like it's moving, like a great, black mass that could reach out and grab him.  
  
There's something seriously wrong with him. Maybe he's just deranged, not gay.  
  
"Kurt! Hey, buddy!" his dad calls again. There's a shuffle outside his door, maybe, he thinks. But that could be the rain playing tricks on his ears. His dad's voice clearly came from the kitchen because their kitchen has the best acoustics _ever_ , so anything said in it loudly enough carries pitch-perfect to the rest of the house.  
  
He should get up and see what his dad wants. He sits up at least, hanging his feet over the edge of the bed, and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes again. He drags his palms over his face and sighs. That word keeps repeating in the back of his head with his heartbeat, " _thump-thump, fag, fag, thump-thump..._ "  
  
"Kurt! Come up here!" his dad sounds a little more frantic now, which is weird. God, is he _mad_ about the phone call? Mad at Kurt? Of all the disappointment Kurt's already imagining, he never clearly imagined his dad being _angry_. And God, it's not his freaking fault someone... gay bashed their phone or whatever.  
  
Maybe it's not anger. Maybe he just wants Kurt to help him find flashlights or turn on the generator. He'd already forgotten that the power was out, but the next boom of thunder reminds him. Oh, right, they're in a storm. How silly of him.  
  
"Kurt!" his dad calls again. Kurt feels like every muscle in his stupid, not-gay body protesting moving, but he pushes himself up, swaying on his feet. He feels drained, like an empty sack. He just wants to fall back into bed. But instead, he shuffles over, meandering through the darkness with ease, even as he gets closer to the stairwell and his heartbeat (and that word) pick up. It's still so oppressive, maybe because it's storming.  
  
"Kurt!" his dad calls again, and seriously, he has to give him time to make it up the stairs at least. He gets to the bottom of the stairwell and reaches up to grab onto the smooth metal railing. It's so cold it almost burns him, which is stupid, but either way his hand flies up, and he stares into the darkness at the pole to see if it's covered in ice. It's not cold weather at all, not yet, but maybe with the lack of power and the storm, the metal became cooler for some reason?  
  
Kurt doesn't understand it, but he keeps his hands by his side as he carefully picks his way up the stairs.  
  
"Kurt! Come on!" his dad calls again. Kurt doesn't know if he's more annoyed by the continued insistence or if he's more worried about how mad his dad apparently is because his son's a fa - because... because Kurt's _different_.  
  
He reaches the door and feels around in the darkness for the door handle. Just as he grabs it and twists, inching the door open to a whispered, guttural " _Yessssssssssssssssssssssssss_...," something grips his arm and closes the door tight.  
  
"What the -"  
  
"Kurt," his dad whispers. There's no mistaking that voice, and there's no mistaking the fact that his dad is tucked into the corner at the top of the stairwell, hidden almost completely by darkness. Which means his dad is definitely _not_ in the kitchen. Kurt's heartbeat picks up, no words accompanying it this time - just a cold rinse of fear trickling down his spine.  
  
"Dad?" he says quietly, voice barely louder than a breath.  
  
"I know," his dad says. "I heard it too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is from Kurt's POV and set in s1 when Burt receives the anonymous phone call calling Kurt a "f*g." In the story, Kurt hears the phone call and reacts to it (emotionally and negatively). The word occurs in this chapter a couple times but not in any others.


	6. Behind You

"526 Mississippi, 527 Mississippi, 528 Mississippi..."  
  
"Britt, what on earth are you doing," Santana asks as she exits Brittany's bathroom, viciously toweling her hair. Lord Tubbington's tail flickers, swaying back and forth dangerously slow, but other than that, he's as still as a statue. His eyes are locked on Brittany. Neither of them have blinked yet.  
  
"549 Mississippi..." Brittany continues before giving up as the tears pooling in her eyes from the strain spill over onto her cheeks. She stands up straight again and smiles at Santana, breathing in the strawberry steam that billows out of her bathroom after every single one of Santana's showers. "This is my new record. Last time I blinked at 482 seconds. Lord Tubbington is a menace to the staring competition society."  
  
"I..." Santana closes her mouth again and drops her towel as she digs through Brittany's underwear and peppermint patties drawer.  
  
Brittany sits down on the corner of her bed and stares at Santana, her cheeks tingling with a faint pink blush. "I like it when you're naked."  
  
Santana looks over her shoulder at Brittany with what starts as a smirk and melts into something softer, a smile that Santana doesn't use all that often since she's too busy fighting the world with her words. "I know," she says, eyeing Brittany's thighs as they spill from her denim shorts. "The feeling's mutual."  
  
Brittany grins and stands up, unbuttoning her shorts as Santana giggles, all searching for panties abandoned. Neither of them notice that Lord Tubbington still hasn't moved.  
  
  
  
At one in the morning, Lord Tubbington is sitting on the corner of Brittany's bed, one paw delicately held up to his nose. Brittany blinks and waits for her eyes to wake up like the rest of her and squints at him. "Okay, we've talked about this, Lord Tubbington. You cannot function in kitty society without your required sixteen hours of beauty sleep. What are you doing up?"  
  
Lord Tubbington doesn't look at her, instead touching the tip of his tongue to his paw hesitantly and immediately recoiling, shaking his head in distaste. Brittany frowns. "Did you get into illegal substances again? I thought your supplier moved to France."  
  
She slides out of bed and turns her light on, wincing as her room is filled with yellow light. Lord Tubbington looks up at her and follows her as she comes back to the bed, sitting next to him at the end. She reaches out and Lord Tubbington holds his paw out regally to her. Brittany touches it and quickly pulls her hand back. One of his claws must've gotten her palm because it _stings_ , her palm tingling and kind of burning.  
  
"Hey, cut it out. What even is this, you're all... slimey," she says, gently cupping his leg and examining his paw. His claws aren't out (anymore, she thinks), but there's thick, goopey, clear liquid covering his paw. It mats his fur down and, when Brittany leans closer and sniffs, smells like gross rotting eggs or the Cheerio's locker room after a six-hour practice session.  
  
"All right, one second," she says, hopping off her bed and going to her bathroom to wet a soft wash cloth. She brings it back and Lord Tubbington's mewl ends in a hiss. "Don't be such a baby." She gathers him up in her lap and cups his leg steady again as she begins to gently wipe it down with the rag. Lord Tubbington tries to twist in her arm and meows ungratefully.  
  
"Maybe you need your own version of a Santana. Then maybe you'd like baths," Brittany muses as she flexes Lord Tubbington's paw and cleans the slimey stuff out from between his pads. He settles down with a grumble, head flopping against her chest and looking off over her shoulder, his hissing calming down to a low, constant, stubborn growl.  
  
"Okay, there. We're talking about this tomorrow," she says as she drops him to the floor and puts the cloth in her hamper. She shuts her light off and Lord Tubbington mewls again as she slides into bed, wrapping her arms around her pillow. She's so tired she doesn't notice the faint click of nails or the drip and splash as something wet and slimey drops onto the corner of her bed.  
  
  
  
"Okay, seriously, this is getting weird," Santana says, two weeks later. They have the whole house to themselves for the weekend, and they downed Coach Sylvester's gross smoothies in bed before getting their scissor on. Santana went downstairs to raid the fridge for a cucumber for some reason, and once she was gone, Brittany sat on her bed, watching Lord Tubbington hop up and sit right in front of her. His round green eyes stare up at her and don't blink.  
  
"I mean seriously," Santana says. "Maybe he has, like, a lesbian thing. Like, a _thing_."  
  
"His therapist says he's sexually well-adjusted," Brittany says without losing concentration. "621 Mississippi..."  
  
"New record," Santana says blithely. Brittany can see her waving the cucumber out of the corner of her eye. "Not to be, like, a total attention whore but - just kidding, I _am_ a total attention whore. And I have something new and really awesome to show you."  
  
"Okay," Brittany says. She won't blink. She's determined to beat him this time. She's placed money on this competition, and she already owes him two weeks of her allowance. "668 Mississippi..."  
  
She can feel herself losing it when Santana marches over, cucumber in one hand, and scoops up Lord Tubbington with her other, marching over to Brittany's door while he mews pitifully in her arms and kicking him out. Brittany watches with her mouth open.  
  
"We were working through his abandonment issues," she says as Santana closes the door. Lord Tubbington's shadow immediately starts marching back and forth in front of the door as he mewls. He's been noisier than usual lately.  
  
"Brittany, you've had him since he was a kitten," Santana says as she falls down on the pink and purple patchwork quilt beneath them. "What abandonment issues?"  
  
"Those kind of things can form very young!" Brittany says. "Unless his therapist is using Lord Tubbington's natural naivety for his money."  
  
Santana looks over at Brittany, cucumber balanced precariously on her belly, and laughs fondly. She traces her fingers down Brittany's shoulder and skates them over her forearm, making the blonde hairs on Brittany's arm stand up. "Maybe," she says. "Come on, Britt, the Tubbs will be fine."  
  
"You know he doesn't like that nickname," Brittany says, pouting down at Santana. "He's very sensitive about his figure."  
  
"I'm sorry," Santana says. "It's just 'Lord Tubbington' is a mouthful, and well..." She smirks at Brittany and flutters her long, stark black fake eyelashes. "I had plans for _other_ things that can be a mouthful right now, if you know what I mean."  
  
  
  
"Again?" Santana asks as she waltzes into Brittany's living room through the side glass doors, sliding them closed and dropping her backpack on the carpeted floor. Brittany's toes are pointed straight in the air, her toe ring catching the sunlight through the doors, as she stands on her head. It had started when she was stretching before Santana came over, and Lord Tubbington was staring again. This time, she meant business. Surely if she turned things upside down, she'd have the advantage.  
  
Except then Lord Tubbington soundlessly rolled over on his back, his eyes fixed right on her, and continued to stare.  
  
"Sometimes I see Pi in his eyes," Brittany says. Her face feels hot, and she's probably bright red and splotchy now, which is going to do serious damage to her hottest teen girl in America cred.  
  
Santana steps over and grabs her ankles, helping her flip back down. Another match lost. She's going to cut off his catnip supply if this keeps up. She kneels in front of the couch, propping her arms on the seat. She shivers as a chill runs down her spine and the blood rushes back to her limbs, a breeze blowing past the back of her neck. Weird.  
  
"What flavor?" Santana asks as she flops onto the couch and takes Brittany's right arm in her lap, starting with her palm and massaging out to each finger. It feels really nice.  
  
Brittany rests her head on her other arm and shrugs while Lord Tubbington walks over and over her legs and bats at her butt then the small of her back with a mewl. "3.1415926--" she starts before Santana presses a finger to her lips.  
  
"I just had to sit through a freaking hour and a half of Algebra 2. I didn't know you meant _that kind_ of pie."  
  
"I like pi," Brittany says. "And numbers." Numbers make sense to her. They're a lot like Santana: straight to the point and vicious. There's no nonsense to them, and they don't get lost in the brain cloud with everything else.  
  
"I know you do, Britt-Britt, but your bff numbers has personally traumatized me enough for today." She laces her fingers in between Brittany's, lightly rubbing her fingertips back and forth over the back of Brittany's hand. It' soothing, even as Lord Tubbington's claws prick into her back. Santana smiles down at her and brushes her free hand through Brittany's hair. "So, wanna help me with that new hellacious routine?"  
  
  
  
"Okay, I have Fast and the Furious, Gone in Sixty Seconds, or A Walk to Remember to watch and get our cuddle on," Santana calls from Brittany's bedroom. She's already showered and wearing one of Brittany's nighties that's a little too long for her and a little too small for her boobs, so they always get too pushed up. Brittany hasn't complained yet. She really likes Santana's boobs. "Which do you wanna put on and then ignore in favor of lesbianism?"  
  
"Explosions can be sexy," Brittany says as she wets her toothbrush and then glides the toothpaste on from tip to tip in an even tube. She's always liked how perfect it looks. "Did you know there are 164 bristles in every toothbrush?" she calls out, scratching behind Lord Tubbington's ears. He flicks his head away and looks up at her with his big baleful eyes, his tail curled around his paws where he's perched on the sink counter. The tip bats quietly against the counter in a steady beat.  
  
"Really? It doesn't look like that many," Santana says. Brittany listens as she hops up off the bed and pads over to get Brittany's laptop out of her cheer bag. "Explosions might drown out this storm."  
  
On cue, there's a crash of thunder and Lord Tubbington's mew descends into a low, humming growl. Brittany frowns at him. "I didn't do that," she says. "I told you I don't control the weather. Your gambling kitty crimelord lied. And you know that leather jacket he got you is vegan."  
  
Lord Tubbington doesn't say anything, just stares. There's a clicking in Brittany's ears, like little tiny pincers, probably coming from the DVD menu. She looks over at Santana, who's sprawled back in bed and mousing around on Brittany's laptop, her bottom lip sucked between her teeth.  
  
 _Click clickclick click_  
  
Brittany frowns. "Hey, is the DVD doing that skippy thing?" she asks. There's a pause and the menu noises die down as she listens to Santana ejecting the disc and then pushing it back in.  
  
"Nope, just checked it. Not a scratch. Why?"  
  
"I just thought I heard something," she says. Her toothpaste is starting to get all melty slidey on her toothbrush. It doesn't look as good as it did before. She shoves it in her mouth and scrubs, counting the seconds as she brushes each row of teeth.  
  
"1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi..." She might as well make this interesting, she thinks, as she meets Lord Tubbington's stare. "3 Mississippi, 4 Mississippi..."  
  
The lights overhead flicker, once, twice, then go out with a pop followed by a yelp by Santana. "Oh, great," she says. "And your laptop needed freaking charging too." The faint blue glow almost immediately fades into blackness as her laptop apparently dies.  
  
Brittany can't really see Lord Tubbington anymore, but her intense training has made it so she didn't blink when the power crapped out. She stares, and she can feel eyes on her too in the dark. It has to be a quick competition, though, because she has to spit.  
  
She leans over her sink and turns the faucet on as a streak of lightning sizzles through the sky outside her bathroom window, illuminating the room for a flash of a moment. She pools some water in her hands as there's another _clickclick_ and rinses, spitting again.  
  
Lord Tubbington's mewl is right by her ear when he shrieks, like something's stepped on his tail, and Brittany jerks up to stare in his direction. He meows again just as lightning flashes, and she sees that he's still staring, but not... quite at her. The light flares in his big, round eyes and then fizzes out as the lightning disappears, but Brittany's heart starts to race.  
  
 _Clickclick_. Lord Tubbington was looking over her left shoulder, staring, and growling. _Click_.  
  
Something tickles the back of her neck, sharp and prickly like a cat's claw, but Lord Tubbington couldn't ever reach that high. She slaps at the back of her neck, scratching at it. Then, there's a drip, and something slimey and warm plops onto her shoulder and cascades down, burning her skin with a faint sizzling sound as it goes. She swats at it, getting her fingers covered, and shouts as they start to sting.  
  
"Santana...?" There's no answer. "Santana!"  
  
Brittany takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns the faucet on high power, sticking her hand under it to rinse the goop off. Lord Tubbington's fur brushes her bare arm, and she shivers, but she's glad he's still there. She looks over her throbbing shoulder at him to see he still hasn't moved. _Clickclick_. What is he looking at? She shakes her hand, slinging water droplets, and turns the faucet off with a weighted sense of dread settling in her stomach. She slowly, cautiously raises up, lifting her eyes up to her reflection in the mirror and to the pair of eyes staring back at her, just over her shoulder, followed by a dripping, yellowed grin.


End file.
